Jesus Was Homeless

Where are you from? Why are you here? Leave us alone. We’re tattered. We’re broken. The smell of poverty clings to even the folds of our skin. We sleep afraid, we wake up afraid. I find that I’m staying in my room, not answering the phone, not answering texts, not answering emails. Others have taken to the woods or hide in town behind piles of rubble. There’s one stone that people go and kiss. This stone has almost melted. From kissing, melted!

Howie Good, 2018

Remixed work:

Glimpses of Aleppo in an Exile’s Vision of an Elegant, Eerie Realm, by Kirsten O’Regan
A Simple Emergency Room Intervention Can Help Cut Suicide Risk, by Rhitu Chatterjee

A God’s Eye

It could have been stolen. It could have been accidentally thrown out. Whichever, the God’s eye is gone. I’ve looked for it where things accumulate, where people leave things. Every house has a corner like that. I’ve been to the market, too. I’ve walked down those cobblestone streets. But I made a conscious decision not to give myself a plan B. I’ve tried everything I can. I can’t keep drowning, I just can’t. I pull up to a traffic light and see a flame thrower, and someone wanting to sell me little Popeye figurines. And in the end, the answer is no.

Howie Good, 2018

Remixed work:

Beer with a Painter: Alfredo Gisholt, by Jennifer Samet

When to Waken Want

I.

Sorrow said, “Believe.”
Think behind and I’m the tonight.
Think really of behind, when said.
Believe-fuck.
Now talking of true hail, the hail said it
Soul-cold there:

“When to waken want.”

Moon that I fool-believe.
Summer, that goodbye to all steel,
Be death-believe. Fine.
There’s raining touch.

Close me.

Think stripp’d don’t touch.
Fool to think everything goodbye,
No pluck flying.
Think-telling when please?
Goodbye there, shit soul.
Want everyday raining what more?
You all-forsaken
Winter shit think, think
What like-stories need night.
Sleep flying soul moon.
No garden-plot, that.

Hear hail
With light lies
Beneath hope.

II.

Soul want spring realize:
Fuck-weep-soul behind th’ halo are kept-believe.
True cold tomorrow gonna
Flying lily hear some.
“Sun-warm’d no”, touch said.
Half need.
“That sick tonight”, touch said, to changing hear
‘Cause letter laugh mouth.
Chilly think lies hear behind snap, its
Want of sides
Lost.

Love-believe,

Know-believe,
Need-believe.
Night eyes think steel.
“There’s fine think on alone soul”, said tonight,
Lonely.
A when mouth.
Flying hail-soul,
Comfortless fool to believe, really.
Goodbye, same everything.
Hear a said light.

III.

Want have.

Don’t your want.
Touch, touch that behind jealous all-forsaken.
Soon death gonna we to moon.
Flying to sleep, no talk pluck.
“Beneath”, said shit. True.
Some sides believe touch.
Believe kind soul gonna we to moon.

Please realize:
Garden-plot lily summer sides
Say, “Surprised,
No fool believes.”

“Comfortless fucking when think”, said your rose:
Think, sit mouth tonight.
Mouth-think, what full to wake.
Behind soul care,
Be sorrow.
Stories flying.
Of telling.
Think, think lost,

Jealous fool.

Brian A. Salmons, 2018

Algorithmic approach:

Dada

Remixed works:

There’s No Need, by Empire of the Sun
I Don’t Wanna Hear It, by Minor Threat
A Daughter of Eve, by Christina Rossetti

Golden Glimmers

1.
The first golden glimmers of the genre,
its central magic nothing but
a charity project for themselves.

2.
A man who ends up going to live
inside his own head
in an imagined city:

entire worlds have been built
reflected in the narrow
and inexact mirrors of others.

The differences are slight,
kinetic and observed; protected
by a varnish of the mythic.

3.
The spasmodic mechanics of dreams,
transformation or absences
not one thing or the other.

4.
Huge windows that silence
all sound from the street,
the voice of someone he can’t forget;

a dissonant chaos of strings and wind
no match for the sadness
descending to the bottom of the sky.

Shimmering dead star dust,
opposite sides of the room.
These lights will never go out.

5.
The head never stops moving,
lost in intelligence.
Such a simply gesture.

Accept the idea
of time gained and time lost,
of the time that passes,

reflections and memories,
simpler and funnier songs,
that fullest of emptiness,

6.
I’m lying to myself
in order to fool all of you,
but of course it’d be a lie.

There never was a more
futuristic time than this tribe’s
capacity for abstraction.

Rupert M. Loydell, 2018

Remixed work:

The Invented Part, by Rodrigo Fresán

Sonata for Gun, Knife and Fist

I sat in my car at the intersection next
to the school mesmerized by the way
the fire was raging from the windows.

Every day I think about what I’ve lost.
John has paint he says we might be able
to use to clean up the burnt-over areas

a bit, but more things can go wrong than
right. I’m tired of this. I’m tired of crying.
There’s a bullet hole in my child’s car seat.

Howie Good, 2018

Remixed works:

Mass Shootings Spur Movements, But Gun Violence Is Constant For Some Americans, by Asia Simone Burns
The Mice Who Evolved to Live on Cheese Fries: Prowling New York With an Evolutionary Biologist, by Christopher Bonanos

Lost Shadows

A journey begins with its own disappearance:
time plays out its imperceptible decay,
shrinking and shaping a narrative.

I was middle-aged and jaded,
had no evolutionary theory,
might be another version of myself,

caught in the extreme of difference,
connections that reproduce themselves
in a metaphysical world.

Confronted by agents of change,
I feel the swarming complexity of sound.
Everything is apparition now,

a negotiable map of many dimensions
and things that are going to happen,
bad dreams of the future.

Rupert M Loydell, 2018

Remixed work:

CD booklet for Lost Shadows, by David Toop

The Stages of Death

Obviously, surprises aren’t always good. / There are so many areas / where someone can get lost / and not even realize it until they’re lost. / You did find hints along the way / – memories, but no nostalgia. / There’s in you some of the stuff / that you don’t want to be there. / It’s like a gray alien woke you / from a normal night’s sleep / and showed you the moons of Saturn, / leaving rocks in your heart. / And then it’s not like that at all, / and then it is again, and then it’s not, / and everything is blurred / and a million times nicer.

Howie Good, 2018

Remixed works:

Tragically Lost in Joshua Tree’s Wild Interior, by Geoff Manaugh
An Interview with Lynne Tillman, by Nicole Miller